


The empty shell (or Maelzel's game)

by vhis



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, First Kiss, First Time, Implied/Referenced Torture, M/M, Pining, Season 3, Series 3, The Empty House, Unrequited Love, Unresolved Sexual Tension, sherlock POV
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-25
Updated: 2013-02-18
Packaged: 2017-11-26 21:22:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 20,000
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/654542
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vhis/pseuds/vhis
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He set up a game for him to play. But that's just his way of saying...well, everything.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chess between automatons

**Author's Note:**

> Fair warning: this work needs a beta reader.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John has a hard time being a human being and Sherlock makes an error in his percentages, thus proving he is one.

“April rain is unlike May rain, or June rain. As a matter of fact, it differs from any other seasonal rain and very much so from any other rain in the world entirely. I can probably make a study on rain, but it sounds too much like poetry so I'll pass. April rain in London smells like deposits of smoke blown in from the west and ice from under stony bridges across Thames not yet melted and most definitely smells like permeated wood. Even if rain is outside the glass windows of 221B. And even if it's been three years. I know it. I always know. And as of now, thanks to John's 10 minute detour -another coffee, in Pembridge Square most likely-you know too. Oh, the wait! My brain rots, I know it. I feel it. Tick-tock, this is really not the grand entrance I was preparing. Yes, I had an entrance planned. Well yes, I know I should have calculated the risk of delay. No, coming later myself was not an option. Imbecile! Now shut up!”

Downstairs, the door to 221B opens and closes with barely a sound. John's home -does he see this place as home?

“Idiot. Trying not to wake Mrs. Hudson. It's obvious she's way too engulfed in her sofa and pillows, put down by her herbal soothers, to hear any sound. It's Thursday! Obvious. Look, John. Just look!”

The good doctor starts his ascent, and isn't it ironic that the fall magic trick will end in an ascent and it's the harmony of this scene that makes Sherlock a violin cord in a chair – his, still present chair- as he prepares himself for the second door to be opened.

“Your limp is back. Interesting, but not unexpected. I have that to repent for too. I'll do it, with more than saying sorry. That would be too trivial. And most likely earn me a punch. OH, just come in already. It only took you 9 seconds before, even when tired.”

John almost does come in, slow breathing increased a notch, maybe because of the stairs, but because maybe he heard it, or most likely he imagined it and it can't be, because this flat doesn't have one, not even one baritone voice on a record or any other piece of music for that matter. So it can't be. And John presses over his ears with both palms, one step behind the door, trying to remain calm and land his stomach back -bad seventh coffee, uncalled for glass of scotch-and fails, because the word “land” is nauseating and Jesus, it's been three years and his thesaurus of the English language should really come back to what it was before the...

“I'm not-”

Yes, he starts to say it just as the door opens eventually. And just in time, I might say, because Sherlock is about to throw a tantrum, and that would be a little not good, when trying to come back and build a case on why you had to die, but now that everything is a-okay, let's be friends again, it's not like Sherlock has more than one. He said it himself. So here he is, with his failed entrance and not a very complicated case to hold.

Or so he used to think, but now rethinks it, and shuts it, sentence left in mid-air. And suddenly this is a seven, maybe an eight on his case worthiness scale. And it's worth getting up from the chair and reaching. Because of the way John stands, and the way his brows are drawn together, but more likely because of his left hand - the dominant hand, the one that killed for Sherlock and the first to miss the blood in case John gets shot. And it's absolute insanity to let that precise hand without blood running through its veins, he though, he thinks, so the heart set so nearby had to be protected. Ergo, the fall. But now that hand shows tremors. And this is definitely an eight.

If things could be different, if Sherlock could be different, not that he wants to, not that he cares, but let's say they could and he does, a barrister job would suit him. Or land him in jail for court contempt. Still...in his head, the arguments are valid and without the embellishment of sentiment, they can do the job of making John observe. And that would be so much more important that what he saw.

“You were talking to the skull.”

From across the room, John speaks a monotone sentence. The variables fly out the window, into the rain. He seems neither in the mood to see, nor observe. And _that_ is what makes Sherlock stop his grand beginning. And makes him start again, nonetheless.

“I'm not-”

“Yes, I know. Stop it now.”

Sherlock frowns, a little annoyed, a little more taken aback. So he resumes with something he's very good at. He'll strip John into pieces, pealed from bone and so concrete they will only lead to the truth and not some irrational reaction. He'll deduce his way out of deducing this first meeting with such a great margin of error.

“Contracted pupils, in a 20% lit environment means you're not focusing. You don't observe and the tremor in your left hand did not stop. You don't consider the danger, even if you heard a voice behind the door, even if you entered and distinguished a body in the dark. Now you see me, I'm not different than I was three years ago -well, two stones lost, two or four scars (four), hard to tell, even for a doctor, _especially_ for a normal person-and you react with nothing more than a blatant obvious observation, the least probable action (5%). Given that I'm alone in here -the most obvious thing you could think, but also not true, somebody could be hiding in the kitchen, impossible for you to see- and you still hold yourself as if you are alone, you either got a lobotomy -no reaction to a joke, interesting- but more likely, from the way you almost look through me and the visible tiredness -overtime, not the first shift-and the single glass of ...scotch, you must think I'm a ...Oh! OH! This is novel. You think I'm a figment of your imagination. I'm...well, flattered actually. Others thought so, right before I ki...well, we'll leave _that_ for another time. Did it happen before? And you're not worried? Of course you're not. Your hand reacts as if this is mundane. Brilliant!”

“Bit not good, this...”

“Oh.”

Sherlock takes two graceful paces forward, only to be mimicked by the body standing in the door frame, a counter movement, like a positive field rejecting his positive action, only it's not positive, is it, the retreat, like in a strange dance they never practised and still works perfectly.

Except for that less elegant move, and the tremors in his hand and the beating pulse in the middle of his irises, black pools of “NOT believing this”, John does little else. Shoulders hung low and his head tilts a fraction to the left. Kind of like Forrest Gump, but the association is useless, because Sherlock never read Winston Groom and God forbid to make him watch the movie. That level of entertainment could permanently affect his brain before he could delete it. But John does that, the little tilt and his lips quirk with the mild, internal self banter of a lunatic that any day now will begin adressing his insanity and even take it out to dinner.

“You're not.”

“Sorry?”

“You said “I'm not”. And then all sorts of words in phrases came out your mouth. Not sure about those. But I'm sure you said “I'm not”.”

“Oh.”

“You say that a lot, too. Guess I'm really really tired. Be free to wander about. I'll assume you wanted to say that you're not really here. At least I hope my brain is clever enough to put my eyes to rest and put some reasonable words in the mouth of an illusion. God, this day was too much.”

And just like that John turns his back and walks -stumbles is the more accurate description- over in the hallway. Sherlock expects him to take the stairway.

“No, I don't.”

John turns for a second, a sign of recognition on his face. So small, so fragile.

“Not you, I was answering to...Never mind.”

“It's worst than I thought, my hallucinations are having hallucinations of their own. I must be coming down with something. Better call Mary and get her to come over. Just for tonight.”

“No! I mean, you're obviously not going upstairs. Patterns of shoe prints on the stairs, old, only go up there to retrieve things and every other night when you're not alone. You've been sleeping in my old bedroom. Not all the time, but tonight you will. Maybe because of the state you're in, maybe because of your leg -no, you had worse- it's more likely because of sentiment. Doesn't get better, this caring lark. And who's Mary and why are you taking her to your room twice, no, three times a week and never to mine-yours too, now. A dancer, mignon, gracefull, a ballet dancer. Mycroft never said anything about-”

He stops because the fragile glimpse of recognition ignites for a second time in John's eyes as he looks back now. It's joined by anger, pain and maybe a little madness. The power of it all burns for a little while and dies under Sherlock's eyes, under John's palm as he smothers a yawn and then goes back to shaking his head and retreating into the bedroom.

“No, no, no, don't go back to blank John!” Sherlock pleads under his breath, even after recognising the futility of trying to convince the man in front of him he's as real as he can be and not actually under two feet of dirt. The frailty of the human mind. Fascinating, but infuriating at the same time.

“You know”-John says with his back to Sherlock, hand -right hand- on the handle of the bedroom's door – “I almost believed it. For a second, you deducing me and my ...”sentiment”, with that tone, as if you were spitting out the word, you were the same cold git I knew and ...I'm a doctor, I should prescribe myself something and stop with the triple shifts. You're not here. I get it. I'm sure as hell not entirely here either.”

And then the door closes, just as soft, inexplicable result of a calculated meeting. This parody of a scene is so idiotic Sherlock considers to recheck he's actually there himself and then gets to infuriated by the blatant mistake and punches the wall, just for good measure. They never observe, not if their mind tells them it can't be. A little trick and they all forget to observe every other thing that contradicts what the think they saw.

He feels betrayed. By John, by his own mind, by the plane landing on time, by the cabbie who for once knew the fastest route. Maybe if he stormed into the flat, bells and whistles, to shake the man sober...He even feels betrayed by the door to his old bedroom, now protecting John from observing.

All the signs are there: the exaggerated eye-roll, the huff and the puff and the storming out the front door, the banging of the said door, just out of spite and the completely unnecessary, annoyed and heard by absolutely not even a skull “Idiot” that his very much alive mouth utters with false disdain.

Tomorrow is another day. And maybe a rested mind will suit John better in observing. Although the percentage of the fist in the face scenario just improved by a large margin. Rested mind, rested body.

“I should have taken the skull. For practice.”

His jokes don't amuse him any more than they amused John. But it does provide the aforementioned practice, of getting back into human behaviour and interaction mode and out of the shell he's been living in in order to survive. The lack of feeling, not much to begin with, he may counter, but enough, the lack of it crept into him and stayed. The alternative was just unthinkable liability that he could not afford. And now, what kept him safe out there turns out to be a disability faced with his old life.

“ I wanted to say I'm _not_ _a machine,” S_ herlock mutters.

But he's not so sure it's the truth now.

 

***

  
  


“A pistol. A rapist. The metal worker from India. The physicist. 75%. The phone.”

He shifts in his new best place to shift in and misses the couch in 221B. Well, as best as someone who left another someone believe he was dead for three years can feel or even understand the concept of “missing”. He pick us the phone, a compulsive need by now and types again, his mind on forgery and small carbon residues. Then, as he realises what he does, throws the innocent black machinery to its death on the wall across, to bury the “I am” words in the never sent message.

With a three seconds delay to the act, a knock on the door announces him the new phone waits there, as it did the last eight times he played this game.

“Mycroft.”

And true enough, the phone, same brand, same colour, same blank address book, lighted by the pre-sent text: “Moran in town tonight. Need details. MH”

“Pff,” he scowls at the screen and that says about everything his brother needs to know. It's the much tamed version of what he really means to say.

The Colonel, a title that gets the same tone as “Mycroft” in Sherlock's low, deep voice, and if not with as much hate, then certainly with much more promise of revenge. After all this time, his last target comes by its own to play the Game. Sherlock's game, this time, and what a better way to end this than to have Moriarty's second do the unthinkable and blow his own head off.

The right corner of his lips rises into a machiavellic grin and this time the knock on the door, one step away from his standing form, comes before the act. Two seconds before he throws the new phone against the paper covered wall, the new one waits there, trembling in fear of destruction similar to its fellow gadgets. A knock which accomplishes and proves two theories: Mycroft's deductions are one second faster than the CCTV image feed he constantly watches and two, his mark is getting better by the day. On the abused wall, among maps, pins and strings, the blonde man in the picture set to place of honour is stroke perfectly in between the eyes. Repeateadly. Mid thirties, thin lips, uneven set of teeth, the smile of a psychopath, fake and yet alluring to any woman he may present it to, this man is what kept him going for all this time and what kept him far from London. From John. John's designated killer.

Blue eyes, reddish strands of hair betraying the Irish gene, much to the man's irritation, but left visible instead of hiding them with dye. Left eyebrow a little higher than the right, on a marksman, the sign of his trigger hand preference. A never closing left eye, trained on John and John's mourning, a brain sharp enough to process clues, links and deduce that the pain is real, that Sherlock is dead, that killing John can lead to nothing more than another line on his ribs, sign of another twisted manhood ritual he performs after every target.

Even then, with John nearly collapsed from the shock, he wasn't sure Moran will put the gun down. With the master dead, no one knew, dammit, not even him, how the killer was going to respond in his insanity. John was never safe that day. All that Sherlock did was place a gamble and wait for one of the two results. If John got shot even with him presumably dead, Mycroft's men, instructed to keep a low profile, would have shot dead the marksman.

He could say it was more of a calculated risk, but even now, as he thinks about it, the possibility (27% possibility) of John getting shot for pleasure makes his stomach turn and he's disgusted with himself and the impossibility to make an accurate prediction. But that won't happen again.

Sherlock memorised that face and deduced every part of the man's life from it and from the gigabytes of CCVT recordings he keeps on the silvery thing in the corner of this shabby room. Everything he needs to know, from the man's military career to the fall in Her Majesty’s disgrace, to mercenary hell and the obsession euphoria. Enough to become the perfect opponent for a true war machine.

One so perfectly calibrated it's almost a thrill to expect the sight of that brain blown away by the perfectly accurate finger of his own perfectly trained left hand.

As he thinks about it, Sherlock moves his long pale fingers, a rehearsal of the movement he'll never make, squeezing an invisible trigger he'll never feel and stares into the torn picture at the man he'll never get to feel under his hands, as the last breath leaves him.

The phone makes a possibly self destructing noise, and Sherlock snaps back to the reality of a London evening in April, moist and cold down here, in his makeshift room.

“Mycroft.”

“Yees.”

“Your plan is ridiculous.”

“Any other obvious things for you to say. I actually expected the “let my men take care of him” and “you didn't change at all”, of course, all irrelevant, because you have the faintest idea of what my plan is.”

“I know it's ridiculous.”

“Hmmm. Now you're repeating yourself. Don't bore me Mycroft. You know what I do when I get bored.”

“Jesus Sherlock. You got him here. Now try to stay alive. You know what I think-”

“Yes.”

“I mean about your trip to 221B. Unfruitful insanity as it turns out.”

“Shut up.”

“The only thing to make him flee again or even better, get hunting, is for you to show up on his radar and expose this for what it is.”

“You _don't know_ what _it_ is.”

An annoyed huff on the other side of the line makes Sherlock smile as he sits.

“Anything useful you want to tell me now?”

“The physicist is ready.”

“Fine,” he replies and ends the call. The last pieces fall into place.

He touches the phone's screen in a sort of a caress and stops himself before composing another “I'm not” text. The wall took it's fair share of pounding. As alluring as the prospect of depleting his brother's stock of phones is, he lays back down on the foreign couch and replays the string of data.

“A pistol. A rapist. The metal worker from India. The physicist. 75%. The phone.”

The box in the masked corner makes a noise. A one by one prison, away from Mycroft's camera. The reason for the fowl smell. His piece de resistance.

“Time for another shot already? You develop an immunity, as expected. Now, now, put out your hand and spare yourself the pain of being awake while contorted in not enough space. There you go, good boy.”

The muffled sound of a responding body does nothing to impress Sherlock. He doesn't need the skull, after all. Not when he has this.

  
  


  
  



	2. You could hurt your hand punching a machine

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock learns to love the poetry of a gun, but misses completely the one behind the anticipated punch.

Lestrade doesn't know the reason he and his team were been called to this warehouse by an alarmed call placed 10 minutes prior. The successfully frightened witness, that, of course, doesn't exist, just gave directions and a strangled, masterfully executed, cry for help. It is a game and Lestrade knows nothing of those.

Well, in Sherlock's opinion, Lestrade knows nothing whatsoever. And it's good all the same, because the man had helped him at one point, even if his mind was too weak and too eager to receive doubt, so Sherlock acts with just a little more tact when revealing himself to the man. As compared to what he measures the level of tact, no one can say, because when the brave police officer storms inside, his men behind him, Sherlock has just shot a man dead, up close, and the body falls with a thud, covering his words.

“Good evening, Inspector.”

The cigarette he smoked and the two...no, three coffees should keep the man's pulse to a high level and away from a bothersome heart-attack. And the surprise can give Sherlock a few seconds to stay out of the officers range of fire. Well, of course to them this all looks like an execution. So he should explain and avoid the standard procedure and receive some metal instead of a greeting.

“Sherlock...” his voice barely registers and only Sally Donovan reacts to the single strangled row of letters that form a name they all but have engraved on their foreheads. Then the detective raises a hand, like in slow motion, thinking that even if he is hallucinating, better make sure before put the tall coated man before him down. He is surrounded after all.

“Keep him in sight. Don't fire,” he orders, then “You're alive?” mistakenly formulated as a question, even to his own ears. Lestrade question gets the trademark roll of the eyes.

“Good, very good observation Lestrade. You are getting better. At being obvious. Of course, for the not so obvious things, you always call me. Yes, I am alive, so are you and a thank you is in order, because you will continue to stay alive now that this man is dead, until your next oversight. Or until stress and sugars give you a heart-attack.

Not one of the ten officers present knows what to do. They do know they shouldn't fire and that this man's name is Sherlock Holmes, a ghost untill today, a name and maybe Donovan also knows this man that shouldn't -can't- be alive, but he is, and even if his name is cleared, she just saw him murder a man in cold blood and it all makes her head hurt. She can only imagine how the DI feels.

“What in the name of all holly-”

“Oh...yes, the dead man. One of yours...more or less. Technical analyst, quite good, wasted in your department, faked incompetence to become suited for your police force, see, the standards are not very high. Age 32, hired 5 years ago because of his skills. As we determined, meaning I did, his skills are well above your standard -for god sake, look as his right middle finger- and so the reason he was hired was a good placed word with the commander by someone influential. Maybe his father, more likely his previous employer. Turns out it was a government official, no need for you to trouble your mind with a name, he had no idea what the plan was for this fellow, and only did the recommendation feeling happy he could give something back to the man who helped him delete some very indecent records. Anyway, three years ago this man was supposed to kill you if I was to come down of a certain roof by means of walking. Or any other means except on a gurney. And all together now, the name you'll be interested in as the mind behind the plot is ...Moriarty. And you'll be happy to know he is no longer ...your division, we can say, for he is as dead as I am alive.”

Lestrade really feels the need to sit. As in right now. The avalanche of words go at him in full force and if not for his men, he would long be ungracefully sited, probably unconscious, on the dirty floor.

“Simmons. Anthony Simmons, our route coordinator,” he manages to recall.

“Yes. And also your personal executioner.”

It all sounds like madness, like a dream gone wrong, but with their history of misjudging facts, as surreal as they appeared and more important, doubting Sherlock Holmes, Greg Lestrade is ready to listen this out.

“You placed the call for him. An hour ago. He asked to go home earlier, something about an accident.”

“Nothing was an accident. I lured him here to politely ask him to step away from the force and from the face of the Earth.”

“You killed him.”

“I could say, for your peace of mind, it was self defence and the facts will testify to that, but I did know the outcome. He came by his own and armed.”

“I need to...I need your-”

“Tomorrow. I think I'm shock right now. So if you have no more burning questions...”

“Sherlock! You called me here. You killed a man in front of the Metro Police and you just want to walk away?”

“Yes?”

“Bloody hell, you lunatic.”

“How can I be sure? I mean-”

“You did that mistake once Lestrade. Please don't do it again. What I just said can be proven and it will be. Tomorrow. You needed to be here to see and spare you the time of investigating a murder. Consider it a gift.”

“A bloody gift?!”

“A statement? Retribution? I don't know, call it as you see it. My work here is done and something really pressing is waiting for me across London. So ...if you don't mind.”

Pawn like police officers offer little space for Sherlock to move, but he manages with the skill of the ghost they thought him to be. As he crosses paths with a shell shocked Donovan, he glances to the side, pale ice eyes fixing hers.

“Anderson was a poor choice anyway,” he murmurs and strolls away into the cold night.

Lestrade kneels near the body left behind, discretely masking the impossibility to stand.

“God helps us all, Sherlock Holmes is back from the dead.”

*

_Simmons is dead.SH_

The phone buzzes two seconds later and Sherlock really doesn't want to answer it. But after a more than a few repeating tones, the cabbie becomes annoyed and it's affecting his driving skills, so Sherlock answers only because he needs to get to Bakes Street as soon as possible.

“Clarifications needed?”

“I wanted to know if I'll need to get you out of prison.”

“Come now Mycroft, your cameras are on me since I left the warehouse. Stop playing stupid and get to the point.”

“You should have told me.”

“I told you what you needed to know.”

“You tell me only what's convenient,” Mycroft retorts and Sherlock knows he isn't talking only about tonight. “This time to place a call, break into a car and replace a gun.”

“Don't pretend fatigue. Your men did it.”

“I could have helped.”

Again, it's not only about tonight he's talking about and Sherlock presses the end button with more force than necessary just to try and imagine what physically shutting his brother might feel like. He likes it. For the millionth time, he avoided the help talk. He needed nothing more than money and resources from Mycroft. That's the only reason why he knew about the plan from the beginning. Managing a fake suicide and a body recognition put him in no position to make Sherlock feel like he owes him. None at all.

_Adair did the job. We expect Moran's reaction to know if it worked.MH_

Of course it will work. He planned it for years. The Colonel is smart, but not _that_ smart and all his determination comes from madness. Revenge, in Sherlock's case, is a much powerful motivator.

He takes the time to change and nine o'clock finds him, as well as Mary Morstan, in front of 221B. He never knocked, even if his hand shows like the motion was stopped mid air. It's part of the plan.

“Excuse me, are you looking for Mrs. Hudson or John?”

Ah, just in time. It was becoming uncomfortable to stay there pretending to knock and restraining himself from doing it, while measuring the movements inside and hoping John won't need to make an unplanned trip to the nearby Tesco.

_Well balanced, graceful yet, slight inequality of paces, left foot, a limp, barely distinguishable, retired from ballet dancing 5 maybe 6 years ago, not by choice. The limp. The way she hides the affected leg. In her case, it's not psychosomatic._

He deduces her life, her tastes and by the time he lies to her face about who he is, he knows how she met John and why she's important to his flatmate. Mary Morstan is nothing like him. No danger, just predictability and openness. Dull.

He climbs the stairs after being invited inside. So easy to lie to. Describe a common event in John's life, likely for her to know and no one else, and she granted him passage along with her trust. Soon, this will also grant him the way into John's head. He'll make him observe and believe, because the past day, even if he'll never say so, drove him mad. Twelve broken phones stand witness to that. All died with the “I'm not” unfinished text on the screen.

This will work. It will make John react and believe, to have another person there to witness. He refuses to be grateful to Mary Morstan, John's year and a half girlfriend.

“John, I have a surprise for you,” she announces even before the door to the room is opened and Sherlock can hear the broken cadence of footsteps, John trying to control his limp, and failing. And the door is open, and he stands there, the light bright and so much more present than the other night and he can see it, the smile he gives her and Sherlock hates for some irrational reason he'll have to analyse later or forget altogether.

Then, as Mary happily announces “Your old army mate Singerson is here”, a flicker of doubt crosses the familiar face. Then recognition, then joy, then pain, then agony and at the very last moment, an anger so cold Sherlock believes for a moment that he sees himself, a reflection of what he was three years ago, when faced with Moriarty and his plan.

“John.”

Better to start this time with something shorter and familiar. Even if the need to say those words burns inside him, burned for years. _I'm not_ and then the trail of thoughts stops as a gun is pressed to his forehead and this, this is not predicted and not boring at all and almost poetic and for the first time Sherlock allows himself to love poetry.

“A show and tell night at the grief counselling group. Why bring the gun? Oh, now you regret killing that man for me, since you believe the reason you did it is dead and buried. Interesting.”

“Shut up.”

“John...” Mary lingers in the door, next to the man she knows as Singerson and her wide eyes can't decide on which of them to stay trained on. Sherlock can feel her gravitating near John and that tells him that even with a gun, John is more of a sun than he is. A moronic metaphor, but somehow suiting for the man burning in front of him, his left arm steady for what may very well be the first time in three years. It's worth it, the close view of that.

“You're not him.”

“I know you and I know her and your relationship and the fact she's relying on you for emotional support, not because you are so very good at giving it, but because she knows your limp is psychosomatic and she needs to believe your problem is bigger than hers, to make you _chose_ a limp. But sometimes she hates it, and you know it and feel guilty and _that_ is why after a year and a half you still haven't moved in together. Maybe because of your dreams, more likely because of your-”

The punch comes as a predictable outcome, much less interesting than getting shot in the head, close range, by the same man you never text to say you're alive. A man so loyal that only stopped being brave once your name was cleared. A man Sherlock even considered calling _home._ The same man who five minutes later walks Mary to the door, whispering comforting words and reassurance, then comes back to apply a freezing cold bag of peas over his bruising cheek.

“You were really here.”

“Yes. But for you my ...being there, wasn't the first time.”

“I used to saw you in the flat, after... Didn't happen for a while now. Until...”

“I'm here.”

“Why?”

“I would have thought How was a more pressing matter.”

“You thought making me watch you die was a good idea. What you think doesn't matter.”

“John...”

It's a little more difficult to stand there and receive lines of dialogue, instead of making them flow in your head. Harder when eyes reflect the light and look older and somewhat unfamiliar all of a sudden. Maddening when all you can concentrate on is rediscovering every line of every feature and you forget to pay attention to the surroundings and the inconceivable happens when Sherlock tries to get up from the couch and the corner of the table plants itself in his bone.

“You moved the table.”

“It's been three years.”

Not sure if it's an answer to his remark or a passing thought in John's mind, because he can't see those eyes any more, Sherlock decides the evening can stop here. All he wanted was to show himself and say it. To make John believe. He received more. A poetic gun barrel to his head, an obnoxious feeling of completion and separation from the world. It's too much for him. So, more as a selfish act than out of empathy with the silent man in the chair, he decides to make a strategic retreat. But he has to say it, before that, before stepping outside John's gravity pull.

“John, I'm not-”

“Get out,” the reply comes silent and then, as an afterthought “Keep the pack...”.

That night he did, not on the swelling of course, but he kept it with him in the cold, filthy room he crawls back to every day and when the strangled, pained voice inside the box asked for food, begged for food, Sherlock still kept the peas in his hands, even if it was the only food he had in the place and he's never hungry when playing the game.

The next morning he fed the voice in the box with the leaking peas, more convenient than running to the shop and left to move another piece on his board. And maybe to see John again.

The still intact phone comes to life with the same text he received countless times before, the moment he passes the door into the Yard.

_Why can't you stay away from him for a few more days?_

_It's hell to keep you invisible. MH_

Of course Mycroft never says he likes hell, he could be the king in hell and make it work like clockwise if it were such a place, and of course Mycroft talks about John in those words, not Lestrade, and he can never understand why Sherlock needs John to know. He's not even sure himself of the true reasons, but he blames it on his plan and the need to involve John in it and that's enough.

So the brave man that received a disturbing news yesterday still shows up the next day to meet him, doubts all gone, limp almost fading. He should feel sorry for coercing Lestrade into texting John and even plans to say sorry to the man, even just to impress his old flatmate, but the moment he's there, Sherlock forgets about it and his voice, even and robotic in his statement, changes in John's presence.

“So I killed a man in self defence. He was a killer, even if only in thought and you should thank me. Also, you need to keep this under wraps, I'm not ready to be...alive again.”

“Something you're not telling me?”

“Plenty. But that is what constantly keeps me alive,” and as he says it, even if he starts the sentence with disdain, looking at Lestrade, Sherlock loses the tone as he looks in John's warm eyes. What he sees there throws him of balance, of plan, of orbit.

The DI acknowledges John for the first time and smiles back at him.

“Good job with the punch.”

“How could you know-” Sherlock frowns, but gets stopped on track by a smug inspector.

“I don't know Sherlock, I see,” Lestrade paraphrases and then concludes. “He avoided your nose and mouth.”

And Sherlock's eyes snap back to John, and in John something that resembles a panic attack tries to get to the surface so he leaves the room, no sign of a limp.

“What's the matter with him?”

“The truth. A bit not good, Lestrade,” Sherlock counters with his own bitter joke in response to the previous remark and storms out the door, turning back just to bark an order.

“Make that bust tonight, Lestrade. Make it happen.”

Lestrade hangs his head, tired after only one hour with the madman.

“Just like the old days.”

“Sorry, sir?”

“Nothing Donovan. We need to arrange a bust for tonight.”

“Where and what sort of bust.”

“Cavalry and Guards Club in Piccadilly. And just pretend you know the reason, it's what I do.”

“He told you to do this? Why?”

“Make some fuss, I think. They'll never let us in that place anyway.”

“We're playing with him again?”

“No Donovan, he's playing us and them and possibly everyone else. Just because he's bloody brilliant and I'll never doubt him again. And you better learn from your mistakes and keep his ...help, a secret.”

“Everything he said about Simmons checks out.”

“I know. I was this close to being shot. In my own station.”

“And he jumped off a roof to stop that from happening. Never took him for a martyr. Never took him for a human being.”

“I know he had other reasons, my guts tell me he did, but even so...he's a good man, no matter what he thinks of himself or thinks he deserve.”

“John punched him.”

" _I_ wanted to punch him. And he knew it the moment he came in. You know what he said? He said - _you could hurt your hand punching a machine.”_


	3. Metal bends from warmth, not punches

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You know how they say it's hard to say I love you? Well...

“Why did you call?” John asks without looking back, knowing Sherlock is right there. Strange that, how he knows, even if he is as silent as a predator. And after all this time when John felt his presence, this time, if he was to turn around, Sherlock would be right there, corporeal and defying the laws of man. This time, John Watson isn't talking to himself. And still, he walks ahead, pretending he is, in fact, alone.

“I thought Lestrade will need a confirmation on my statement. You're the only one who knows about the three assassins. You never told him about the recording, obviously.”

“ _Obviously_. But he believes you. Unbelievably. You knew he'll believe you. No need for me here.”

“I killed a man, John.”

“I know, I heard.”

“It wasn't self defence. I looked him in the eyes and executed him.”

That makes John Watson stop. And turn. And look at Sherlock dead in the eyes. Even if the detective was expecting a reaction, there is none, except for the sudden stop. The blue eyes are searching him and Sherlock waits for John to understand. He does. A military nod, a late blessing of sort and a hint of something else in the twitch of his left hand trigger finger makes Sherlock's lips twitch.

Then John turns and starts walking again. And Sherlock really, really wants to stop him. But _understanding sentiment,_ with its incredibly simple chemistry, so very destructive, and _reacting_ in a certain way within the parameters of sentiment are two very different things and instead of doing something unacceptable, Sherlock says something inconceivable.

“Thank you. For the frozen-”

“It was nothing. And suddenly you starting to say thank you is...it's just...”

“You don't mind me killing a man and yet-”

“Yes! Because that's what you were, what you did. You break people, bring them down, no matter the cost. You don't say “thank you” and “I'm sorry” and ...”I'm alive”. And now it's too late to start, Sherlock.”

Sherlock forgets the basic movement of right-lef-right in his feet when he hears his name in John's voice. He sees the muscles moving, contracting as if to hold the man together, his back tense and smaller with vulnerability and Sherlock knows he did that. For the first time, he considers if coming back, back for John, was a good idea.

“I'm not a machine.”

The elevator clicks as it reaches their floor, a mechanical sound as a resonating full stop for his sentence. He says the only thing he really needed to say to John. He can only hope John will see it and understand it as everything that he can't voice any other way without making himself sound weak or ridiculous. John deserves more.

As the double doors open in front of them, the small space inside doesn't look like an escape, but more like a fall. John turns on his heels and heads for the stairs. the true escape. Sherlock doesn't follow.

“I'll come by 221B. To see...Mrs. Hudson.”

“Fine,” John replies over his shoulder but does not stop.

“Sure you want to take the stairs?” Sherlock offers from inside the elevator and kicks himself for it after the words fly out. _Idiot._

“ _Psychosomatic_ limp, remember?”

John's brave or maybe silly gesture allows Sherlock to get a head start on the way back to Baker Street. Even if the original plan was for Mycroft to intercept John somewhere on the way and allow Sherlock the time to ...make the visit, this will work too. Very convenient, especially as the text arrives to confirm his plan is on schedule.

“ _Briknov on way to 221B, Baker Street. MH”_

He allows himself a smug smile, because his brother finally sent a text and even if he can _feel_ theunwritten “be careful” in that line on the screen, it's better than to have Mycroft lecture him with his insufferable voice. Mycroft knows it too. Just the fact that he kept it brief makes a clear statement about his concern.

“Unnecessary.”

“You sayn' something, sir?” the undercover agent posing as the cabbie - _so very obvious, damn you Mycroft-_ turns to check and Sherlock knows this man has been in the business of driving for less than a year. He ignores him and reaches for the revolver he knows sits under the front seat. He pockets the exquisite piece _as the pretend cabbie asks, watching him in the rear mirror “Is this..._ _ _route__ _, satisfactory, sir?”_

_Sherlock knows the unique revolver by heart. And Mycroft would give him nothing less than a perfect match to his requirements for this. So the question is trivial and he ignores it, choosing to respond to the question per se._

“No. Take a left here and then two rights. You'll get there faster.”

“Yes sir.”

Of course Mrs. Hudson is not in. Another of Mycroft's black, invisible cars picked her up from somewhere in town and she's now safe away from 221B baker Street, replaced by an agent, for Moran's eyes if he should be watching. For this to work, the Colonel needed to think she's home and alone. Another reason to get John to the Yard.

He arrives with plenty of time to post himself behind Mrs. Hudson's door and not wait too long as to drive himself crazy. Still, Briknov is 10 minutes late. Sherlock thinks criminals are just too lazy and just for that they deserve to be shot. This one surely does. And will.

The sentence is carried out with explosions of adrenaline. Less for him, of course, where is the thrill when knowing the outcome, but even with only the image of the captured killer in front of him and Sherlock is satisfied. The game reaches three tries each when John steps inside and calls for Mrs. Hudson. Sherlock doesn't stop and places the revolver to his temple.

“My turn,” he teases the bald sack of scared to death flesh , tied to the chair except for one hand.

And it's too late to send John away or curse his brother for allowing him to get home, or even contemplate the need for a professional cleaning crew after this will be carried out. All he sees is the man's eyes, all he smells is the cold nickel and all he hears is John inhaling deep and desperate in the open door.

“Sherlock...”

He clenches his finger and the air coming out of John's mouth makes a far more distinguishable sound. Only then Sherlock turns to him and smiles. Like a madman.

“John, meet Anton Briknov. He was kind enough to miss Mrs. Hudson going out and still accept my invitation to a little game. You see, he likes fire arms. So much so, his day job as a handyman is the real _hobby_. And a clever disguise. Because his interest in our landlady's rooms for the past three years are not related to mould or the broken heater.

“The hit man.”

“Yes. And if he came to play, I set up a little game.”

“Cluedo wasn't good enough? You just had to do the Russian roulette and die in front of me? Again?”

“You being here is an inconvenient derail from the plan. And I'm very much alive., as you can see, _doctor.”_

“Stop this.”

“But it's his turn.”

“He deserves it. But you-”

“John, why don't we let him chose. Mister Briknov, play the game and a. die, b. win and walk free, knowing you killed Sherlock Holmes -well, not exactly you, but it will do the trick- or c. leave here without completing your job and become a target for your superior. And you heard what he can do.

John tries to think about it. Really tries to erase the image of Sherlock's face full of blood and then Mrs. Hudson's face full of blood and he takes to long to say something. Anything. The killer already has the weird looking revolver in his hand and his decision is made the moment Sherlock explains his options.

The noise this time is real and the smell is real. On instinct, an instinct he never knew he had, Sherlock jumps up from the chair he sits in and blocks John's view of the scene even before the blood is too real. He's standing in front of the smaller man and they just look at each other. John sees sad peace in Sherlock's eyes and a little doubt and a tinny bit of frailty. It makes him question reality.

Sherlock sees himself in John's eyes, closer and closer, until he can't see John or himself any more. He can only feel. Under the skin, in places he always wanted to understand. A powerful left hand grabbs his neck and presses down. Senses go into overdrive. He can associate this with something in his past, another kind of addiction. Breath racing and hitting his ultra sensitive skin, perspiration above John's upper lip and cold separation as he's left there, eyes closed, to try and process the magnitude of this scene. Feelings assault his synapses, his muscles.

“Breathe, Sherlock.”

He does and finally looks ahead, where he thinks John is. Time must be scrambled and irrational now, because Sherlock didn't feel the body move. And somehow John is across the room, picking up the revolver from de dead man’s hand.

“This is going to be hard to explain. Yes, he did come in packing a gun, but he _did_ shot himself using your revolver. Not even Anderson is going to miss that. Strange how little blood there is...”

John talks, but avoids his eyes and Sherlock really wants to read something hard as ground in those eyes, to restore his balance.

“He...mhm...yes... _no,_ it's because the revolver is highly modified. And the...him _,_ it won't be a problem. I...arhh...I set up the place. So a fight...yes, looks like a fight, he, you know...”

“...surprised you...”

“Yes. And then...”

The rest of the possibly very well thought, rational scenario, was explained in a vague sequences of flailing, pointing and head scratching, thank God, without holding a gun this time.

“So everything stays the way it is. Right then. We should call Lestrade.”

“On the way.”

“Oh. So I'll...go now. To look for Mrs. Hudson.”

Before John can reach the threshold, Sherlock opens his mouth and closes it twice. Then finds himself with the revolver in his hand, pushed there by John, and a little more sense in his head, so he gives the antique piece back to John's hand, catching him by surprise.

“This is yours.”

Looking down, then back up, the soldier stoically keeps his eyes level. Sherlock is not so brave and looks at the other man's lips. Twice.

“You don't do presents, either.”

Sherlock frowns and tries to make sense of the actions and reactions in the past 3 minutes.

“Never mind _that_. I'll explain. But...you punched me. And _kissed_ me. And you still act like ...like that,” he signals toward John, a run through with his hands over the space the man's body occupies and suppressed annoyance on his face.

“Yes, because relationships are complicated, Sherlock, specially when one of the parties involved lies to the other for three years and then comes back and expects ...what, giggles at crime scenes? The punch? You deserved it. The kiss? _That,_ you can...I don't know, delete it or-”

“I can't just _delete_ it,” Sherlock cuts in, indignantly. “I know things can't go back to how they were...I know. But you _see_ now. You understand why I had to.”

“Actually...I think I do. I think I know how you justify it to yourself. You think you did it for us. No, you believe it. But you don't, _can't_ think of how it made us... _me_ , feel.”

“I...”

“I can't believe we're discussing this over a dead body. After you played the god damn Russian roulette with the man. You bloody idiot.”

“Not good?”

This time John's mouth unexpectedly changes shape. A smile. Part guilty, part hidden, but a smile. And of course Lestrade comes in with the cavalry just as the poetry of this whole scene sinks into Sherlock. A rehearsal, adrenaline in his veins, John smiling, the revolver designed for him especially in his -left- hand. Perfect.

After a few hours of questioning at the Yard, a revolver lost in the evidence room, a few “NO” texts sent to Mycroft's “I'll get you out” daft interference, they are both released until further notice. Sherlock doesn't listen.

The scene from this morning, them walking to the elevator, repeats itself, with different parameters. In disposing of Briknov, Sherlock pursued only two advantages: to prove the revolver was fit and the opponent was mislead. But he received an ally. Willingly, John backed up his story. They were functioning in synchronous paces that Sherlock recognized before, but never accepted how much he missed. Until now.

“I can't delete it.”

Surely John will know what he means. Because he can't say it now. And John stops, waiting for Sherlock to catch up and then starts again, limp long forgotten.

“Try harder.”

“I have to know what it means. It drives me insane. I barely heard Lestrade asking the questions. You kiss me, but won't forgive me, or even let me in-”

“In _where_? In the flat? I'll move, you can have it. For a year it stood deserted. I guessed your brother kept paying the rent. I figured it was his sick way to repent. Now though, the reason is obvious. Give my apologies to him for mistakenly considering he has a heart.”

“I'm not back mainly to enjoy the good job you did in clearing my name. Or even just to ...take out the trash. Mycroft could have done that following my direction.”

“Then why _are_ you back?”

“Isn't it obvious, John?”

The elevator's double doors are closer and closer and Sherlock is rather desperate to solve this puzzle. And clear his head.

“No...it really isn't obvious for _me_.”

“I love you. I must be. This...this,” he pointlessly gestures towards himself. “If that's what it takes to explain it, these words, to make sense-”

“Jesus, Sherlock,” John interrupts, collapsing his head on his hands against the wall. “You can't come back and say things like _thank you_ and _please_ and, my God, not this...you don't know...you can't-”

“Please John,” Sherlock huffs, “I told you, I'm not a machine and I'm definitely not an idiot. I understand the process-”

“You're calling _it_ a process.”

“Yes, well, this _has_ to make sense to me. It can't just walk around with ...what do they call it, puppy eyes and stupid grins and bring you flowers.”

“Nooo, you just kill yourself for me and then come back and give me a revolver that you used to make a killer kill himself.”

“Yes.”

At the short conclusion, John breaths a long breath and pushes the button to call the elevator.

“ _I can't_ delete your choice of keeping me in the dark. Or, maybe I could have, but you made me watch you jump. That was cruel.”

“Your reaction saved you and them. One doubt and they would have gone ahead with the plan.”

“But three years?”

Sherlock knows when to not answer a question. He lets John get into the elevator and lingers for a second outside. When his friend reaches a hand and stops the door from closing on him, he steps inside.

“You have a life now,” Sherlock offers.

“No...I really don't. You were wrong, you know?”

“Wrong? I'm never wrong,” he counters.

“But you were. I know Mary for almost two years now. She was a ballet dancer and had an accident while dancing under- well, let's just say she made mistake. I met her at a group session Ella dragged me to after... And she does resent my limp, but we do feel something for each other.”

Sherlock waits for the part he got wrong and see how John is almost amused by that.

“But she's my … you can call it sponsor. And I'm hers. Ground breaking thing in counselling and recovering, Ella thought. In the beginning it felt stupid, embarrassing and...just wrong. But it worked. And we decided to keep it simple. Well...”

“A sponsor.... _a sponsor._ ”

“Yes. There's always something, right?”

And John smiles wider now and Sherlock feels like smiling too.

“I frightened her yesterday. It was the first time I held my gun in front of her. I told her about it, about you, but...”

“The fact that you had the gun pointing at someone was the reality call.”

“Yes...Jesus, I could have shot you. We suspected after you...we suspected, Lestrade and myself, that there must have been someone similar to try and make that abduction possible and blame it on you. I thought you were him. It was easier to believe _it was_ him.”

Sherlock doesn't know what to say to that. John abandoned the sentiment part of the discussion, and he will not start it again. And anyway, what John says now are facts. There's no resentment in those words.

“You pocket is vibrating. Still taking pissing contests with your brother?”

“He's probably telling me Mrs. Hudson is ready to come home. And- What? _No_. What does that even _mean, pissing contest_? It makes no-”

“I was joking.”

“Oh.”

“Yes. Oh.”

They look at each other and it's dangerously close to the past.

“It's so easy to forget you're a complete bastard.”

“Not for me, I have a bruise,” Sherlock makes a point by sticking his finger in the bluish/green/yellow patch of skin on the much paler face.

“You'll live,” John offers and after a moments hesitation, starts laughing like a man who lost his mind.

Sherlock allows himself to smile, hidden from John's laughter banding form. But the truth is, this, it hurts. He never spent a second thought, in three years, over his motives and decision. Not when he successfully brought down a web of criminals, not when he needed to ask his brother for help -well, maybe a little then.

He didn't doubt it when coming up with the plan for John to take out Moran, he knew John will say yes, eventually, maybe not as quickly, but he knew. His plans always work. The percentages are amazing when needing to decide on a game of chess, like this turned out to be.

Conscience, on the other side, or love, are disadvantages found on the losing side, as he once told a pawn. He didn't calculate his return in those. Not in the beginning. Conscience never troubled him when standing in front of John and receiving a punch. It was a planned outcome.

But this, right here, John laughing next to him, already saying yes to killing a man, and yet not yes to him, laughing after a bad joke about death, the same thing that kept him debilitated for three years, brings conscience back into the equation. It's unpleasant. And maybe a little frightening, because he needs a clear, sharp mind to make the last move in this game, and John can't pay for his sentiment impaired judgement. Not after all the time he spent keeping John safe.

It's strange, how his only weakness is the puzzle that this man next to him represents and yet, he is his best move. It's illogical and too poetic for him to stand and maybe John could explain it to him if John wouldn't be smiling with warmth in his eyes.

“Shall we, then? I think I'll come to make sure Mrs. Hudson gets her chance at punching you.”

The phone in his coat pocked chirps again.

_Adair planted the doubt. The car is waiting.MH_

“Fantastic.”

“What is?” John straightens himself and walks into the street, Sherlock at his side and asks no questions before stepping into the black car parked illegally and obviously not one of the police force.

“You,” Sherlock answers holding the door and taking a quick look around. He doesn't dare to look at John.

  
  


  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The revolver plays a role in this and if you want to take a look at it, it's here.  
> http://www.horstheld.com/0-Spain.htm  
> You'll understand its use in later chapters.


	4. The strings never recoil, until they do

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Sherlock is not punched, but he orders an execution and refuses sex, all of them NOT for the reasons you might think.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am very very sorry for the last part's editing, the document looks fine, this doesn't. Sorry, sorry, but I'm to much of a wreck to try and fix it now.

Mrs. Hudson doesn't punch Sherlock. She hides her tears and helps John take care of a fainting lab assistant called Molly Hooper.

St. Bart's was a great hiding place for their landlady, as it was a good place to frame a suicide.

“Oh, Sherlock, the mess you made,” she says from time to time and every time more fondly.

Between the last tears, Molly looks up at Sherlock and smiles a small pretty smile. He knew then and knows now that the three people he has near now are not to be underestimated.

“I'm so glad you're ...back....from the dead I mean...yes, I...”

“So far, you're the first to say it.”

“ _Sherlock!”_ Mrs. Hudson slaps his arm and pushes her small frame into his side.

“So when you said you needed me...”

“I did. You gave me the idea...partly. When you told me about your father's...look, when he was about to die... I ...I needed you to release the body to my brother as quickly as possible. You did very well.”

“I could barely look at you...him...the body.”

“I know. I counted on it.”

He realises he sounds a little harsh,a little like a puppeteer making the strings recoil at will and he doesn't need her to tell him what to say this time. He just says it. “Mhm...thank you. For...”

“It's fine. I told you, it's all fine.”

Which reminds him of something John said. It's exhausting how his mind now picks up and sorts references that all lead to John. He'll tell him that, later, and maybe John will see more into it than he can afford to read.

The same black car takes them to 221B Baker Street and as they move in the crowded chaos, Sherlock picks up on the movements all the traffic cameras make. Mycroft is still keeping him invisible.

After a cup of tea, the usual ice breaker or problem softener, Mrs. Hudson sends them off her cramped warm kitchen with a grin.

“You boys have a lot to talk about, I reckon. To catch up. Wounds to heal.”

And she closes the door with a whispered to herself _The mess you made, Sherlock._

John starts his way upstairs, hand running through his short, sand coloured hair.

“She wasn't talking about real wounds, like your bruise, you know.”

“I understand innuendo, John.”

“Been spending some time with the dead Irene Adler, have you?” John replies before he can think about what he says. Sherlock sees him recoil and stop to stare at him, a guilty, pained expression crossing his face.

“God, I'm sorry, I-”

“To answer your question, no, not from her. But I did have a few encounters with Miss. Adler.”

“What?! But she's...isn't she? Mycroft...”

Sherlock lets John absorb the news and comments no further. He doesn't need to hear of another person who knew about him not being dead. John has a strange pull towards possessives. Absurd, because Sherlock is not one to _be someone's_ , and troublemaking, for it seems John is reluctant to let go of his new attitude precisely because of his being kept in the dark. It's also a little flattering and Sherlock recognizes in himself the same feeling. The preconceived, irrational notion of _mine._

“You know what? Forget it... to much information. Leave it at that.”

Actually, Sherlock is just about ready to tell John about his encounters and maybe even the movement of the pawns on the game table. He is ready to tell John everything. And not just to gloat this time. Instead, at John's reaction and ascending form, leaving him downstairs, Sherlock takes the opposite direction.

“Aren't you coming up?”

He stops and almost curses out loud his stupidity. He fears his relaxation in John's presence makes him more and more exposed. And this time, a mistake like that would bring down not only him.

“I...if you want me to.”

“You didn't need the invitation the other night. At least this time I'm sober and not half asleep.”

As John takes his place in the chair, Sherlock keeps his distance and strangely decides to maintain the boundaries intact by taking a seat on the sofa. The thought of his _other_ sofa, down there, in his other room, makes him appreciate this place even more. Not because it's _home_ , that would be a too sentimental approach. It's because he's here again _with_ John. And he can sit properly, dressed properly, and talk properly, unlike the other times when he found himself hidden under bridges, or rat holes, in disguise and talking foreign words of deceit.

“Why did you say the revolver is mine?” John starts after a good ten minutes.

“Because it is, obviously. It was made for you. It took almost two years and some considerable debt. Only you can shoot it. Only your left hand.”

“You're making absolutely no sense. It's stuck in a police evidence room.”

“Well, _that_ revolver was only a copy.”

“Still not making any sense.”

“I'm going to ask you to kill a man with that revolver. Well, with its original. And you'll say yes.”

John looks up at him with large questioning eyes and, _yes, yes John, you see it now._

“Moran.”

“Yes. Colonel Sebastian Moran. Ex-army, obviously. A marksman. Very good at it, but very unstable. Troubled past. I don't know how he managed to pass the tests. He did. But the past made him do things... A dishonourable discharge later, with serious mental issues and the very best training, he became a great catch for Moriarty. He collects arms and has a rather peculiar gambling addiction. And he was the one having you in his sight. Think about it if you need to-”

“Yes.”

“I know this must be-”

“No, stop. I meant _yes_ , I'll do it. Tell me when and where.”

“Thank you.”

“I'm not doing it for you.”

“Still.”

“You're mad as a hatter, you know that?”

To his pleased smirk, John retorts with the best thing Sherlock can imagine “And it's catching, because I got it too.”

Sherlock loves the idea of anything passing from him to John and John to him. He would give anything to quantify it, isolate it, analyse it and name it. But this would do for now.

“So where is the original?”

“Moran has it.”

“Oh, that's obvious.”

“Is it?”

“No, Sherlock, it's not.” John smiles. “I'm trying to keep up with you, but you have to understand I feel like coming into a room in the middle of a conversation.”

“Oh.”

“Yes, oh. Now, can we take it from the beginning? You think you can manage to walk me through it without shooting at the wall?”

“I throw phones now.”

“Of course you do.”

They share a smile and Sherlock takes his thinking position. A statue of concentration, sharp highways of flesh and muscle condensed into a mass of perfectly alive and warm revenge. Before he can start his exposition, Sherlock sees the reaction he causes in John. A spark of something. It resonates with something inside himself.

“Moriarty accepted Moran's only ...disability. It was a way for him to ensure the man's loyalty. It was, and still is, in fact, Moran's only disadvantage. He has no conscience, he never hesitates, and loves to take lives. He has the money, the connections, the influence. It's all a game for him. He keeps count. The fact that Moriarty has him well supplied and even ensured the safety of his other, even more sinister pleasure makes... _made_ Moran a happy man. Their relationship was a paradox. Moran hates authority and finds men...disgusting. To ensure his services and keep the man close was one of Moriarty's great schemes. He became the second in command of sort, if you can accept the fact that Moriarty needed one.”

“And if he's gone...”

“The rest of the organization dismantles. Moran keeps the things going only completing previous games. He doesn't have the brains to come up with new ones.”

“How can we get to him?”

“ _You_ will get to him. I never did and never will see him. But as of today, he thinks you are in a sort of vengeance mission. Well placed whispers convinced him you finally placed the pieces together and you know about him and the network. He kept an eye on you. It must be maddening not to know how you got to them. Now he believes you killed the man he had placed inside the Yard and Mrs. Hudson's shadow.”

“So he has no idea you-”

“No. This is all made for you. If he even suspects I'm alive, he'll kill you. Or worse.”

“Worse?”

“He'd do anything to make me come out.”

“Like torture.”

“Maybe, but that is irrelevant. He doesn't know I'm alive. He knows only what I want him to know. And he'll be there for you to look in his eyes when he'll die.”

“And how can we make that happen? It's not like he's going to call me and invite me to tea. And my revolver is in police custody.”

“Oh, but it's even better than tea. And I told you that revolver wasn't important. Moran will invite you to his favourite game. And he'll provide the toys. Like I said, he has a very violent past. From abuse to rape and torture, he saw it all. What he plays now is a game few favour. Top secret and taboo. They meet in random high security places and gamble on large sums of money.”

“Target shooting? Hunting?”

“Russian roulette.”

“How...you mean the _real_ thing?”

“Yes. To the end. Of course, all the other players, except some suicidal fools, gamble only their money. They all have people desperate enough to play for them.”

“Like...pawns?”

“Exactly. People who for a sum of money take the gun and push the trigger.”

“And they...”

“They die. Yes. Because obviously, Moran never lost. Even if, like I said, he's the only one who gambles both his money and his own life.”

“That's insane.”

“A weakness, the only one we can exploit.”

“How?”

“He knows he can't lose, for one. I'm positively sure he wishes he would, though, sometimes, but the thrill, in that specific moment, when he pushes the-”

“All right, stop. I get it. Well, I don't actually, but...How can he do it every time? It can't be luck.”

“It's not. He has a revolver, the original of the one you saw. A beautiful, unique piece. A Spanish, 3 barrels, 18 shots, 3 firing pins, custom revolver he uses in very match and even borrows, under close supervision, to occasional games. The revolver is modified for his left hand. No one knows. Well, obviously someone knows. So, for everyone else, the ...game's inspectors, we can call them, it works like a perfectly normal one. The weapon is checked every time. But in his hand, it never allows the shot. It's a masterpiece of physics.”

_“Wait. You said ...it's safe in_ __his_ _ _hand. You made the copy to fit_ __your_ _ _hand_ __and_ _ _mine. Right? Please tell me-”_

_“I told you, the copy was made to perfectly replicate the original.”_

_“So you...Jesus, Sherlock. You actually …you ...this morning you_ __were_ _ _going to kill-”_

_“No, no, no! Why don't you just_ __listen_ _ _.”_

_John leaves the chair and starts pacing franticly, pulling at his hair._

_“You don't make sense. Really, beyond reason of a doubt, you've gone bonkers.”_

_“No. It's all part of the plan. I had to see the revolver. And feel it work.”_

_“How the hell could you tell? I never touched the god damn thing. And_ __I_ _ _should fire it to make sure it works. Not_ __you._ _ _”_

_“I...ahm...I just needed to see it and press the trigger. It's indeed perfect. The modification is undetectable. Two owners, two ways to make it stop delivering the bullet. You and me on the copy, you and him on the original.”_

_“Tell me something? Did you ever held the original? Made sure it was modified?”_

_“Yes. Some two years ago.”_

_“And you had it copied? To the core?”_

_“Yes. Well, except for the minor improvement I told you about.” Sherlock thinks his explanation, the one he feels like he should convey, will not comfort John. Maybe it will make him doubt the plan. Doubt_ __him._ _ _But it's the truth and it's brilliant. “I...I met a metal worker in India. He made the revolver after a scientific team took it apart. In over a year, the copy was ready. But we had only 24 hours with the original revolver. A physicist perfected the system to my specifications. But I had to be sure. It worked, so I have no doubt-. John, are you listening to me?”_

_John looks outside the window, but then, as a thought crosses his mind, he covers them and returns to the middle of the room._

_“What were you thinking? Playing this game with him? Aren't you tired of games?”_

_Sherlock pauses. Tilts his head. “I wanted him dead. I wanted you to look him in the eye and kill him. I thought you'll appreciate the metaphor.”_

_“I...we need to have a talk on what is too much when it comes to gifts. Fine. So the revolver has some sort of Bond activated control he doesn't know about? But the game will be a little boring if both our hands make it misfire. And how could you possibly know how my hand-”_

_“I_ __know_ _ _you. I know everything about you from the way you breathe after a fight to how you move after sex. And the other way round. I_ __felt_ _ _your hand. I...I hold your hand sometimes when you have a bad dream,” Sherlock throws as explanation, sick of John doubts. And realises he said to much._

_He doesn't say that he did that quite a lot, every time he heard the noises upstairs. He would creep inside the turmoil of John's room, sit himself on the floor and latch a finger onto John's trigger finger. He doesn't say that's his way of giving the security of a gun, so that John doesn't feel defenceless in his dreams. He doesn't say he did it after John shot a man for him and after Moriarty had them at the pool, and he doesn't mention the fact John says his name before pulling the imaginary trigger. “I know the exact pressure-”_

_He stops as he sees John standing there motionless. The soldier, his friend, looks like frozen in time, like everything in him shuts down at the same time, muscle by muscle, synapse by synapse. He just stands there, defying the laws of gravity by keeping himself together when all he is falls apart piece by piece. Sherlock panics slightly. And he has no one to ask if this revelation was a little not good._

_“I'm sorry.”_

_Nothing. John still looks at him as if he's the only real point of matter in space and time and at any given moment, he could explode into an universe. It's intoxicating for Sherlock. He moves to stand near John and almost expects him to throw another punch._

_Careful and slow, like in void, Sherlock arranges his limbs to mimic John. They look nothing alike, outside or in. But they fit there, in that space, like none others. Only the two of them. Boundaries have no place between them. So Sherlock reaches to John's left hand, holding his big, blue eyes. He raises the dead hand, makes it pretend to hold a weapon and arranges his fingers to stand in a perfect shape beneath John's fingers. John pushes the trigger._

_“Yes. That's it.”_

_But then it's not exactly it, because the squeeze is more and more powerful and Sherlock is trapped in an unnatural angle close to him._

_“Tell me to stop.”_

_“What?” Sherlock asks back, idiotically, he thinks, because it's obvious_ __what_ _ _should stop, but then it's not so obvious any more, because John does more than hold his hand in a death grip. He closes the remaining space between them. And to that, Sherlock can't answer with a Stop. He forgets why the moment he feels pressure on his lips. That's when he does explode. A Big Bang of repressed feelings considered transport, variables forever excluded from facts, puzzles he hates and so calls them games, so he can love, bees..._

_“Bees?”_

_“What?”_

_“You mumbled. Transport, puzzles and_ __bees_ _ _.”_

_“No, I didn't.”_

_John looks at him, now more than a statue, a little more relaxed, far more than Sherlock can manage and waits, a smile on his lips._

_“You kissed me. Again.”_

_“And you point out the obvious._ __Again_ _ _. I think I'll stop doing it, just because it seems to affect your-”_

_Sherlock roars. Almost sodding roars as he collapses onto John, fingers in his hair and skin, nose on his neck, on his face, on his eyes. A relentless, desperate search for answers, intimate as all his research are. He searches deeper, pusher harder, to invade this enigma of a man who can kiss him -twice- but can't forgive him and why,_ __why_ _ _does he need to be forgiven?_

_“Sher...Sherlock. Wait. Stop.”_

_“No,” he breathes in between sloppy, messy contacts of wet lips, because he's not done with this and this time, the need doesn't come with hospitalization and rehab. It comes with heat and responsive cells fusing with his. “You want me.”_

_“Sherlock...” John sights in the mass of limbs from where they can be distinguished as two only by angles and sharpness and skin nuance. As John tries, and fails to struggle, Sherlock dismisses his attempt of bringing sense back into this by talking._

_His plan will work, John will be there to see his killer shoot himself, confidence blown away in a beat of a heart. A plan brought together by attention to the tinniest detail. A detail that makes all the difference. Beautiful. A little like this kind of beautiful, when John pushes himself in his form, until they backtrack onto the sofa and he's not alone in his skin any more._

_“God, I can't do this,” John annoyingly hesitates when they are half way naked, clothes rumpled and out of place._

_“You_ __are_ _ _doing this._ __I_ _ _want you to,” Sherlock pushes as he struggles with the last stubborn layer of protection John's upper body keeps. He finds his hands incapacitated._

_“Stop trying to get yourself naked.”_

_“Why?!”_

_At that, John laughs and uses the puzzled stillness of his body to back away and sit on the table._

_“Have you even-”_

_“Yes, I had sex before. Not quite a necessity like_ __now,_ _ _but I'm not a virgin, so you can forget any noble thoughts you have.”_

_“Jesus, that was not what I...you said it was transport. I thought you...don't like it, or find it ...messy. I didn't know you prefer-”_

_“It_ __is_ _ _transport, a way to release some chemicals in the body. I don't look for it, but I was curious-”_

_“Of course you were.”_

_“-and it was always scientific. And I don't_ __prefer_ _ _anything, the selection was meant to help with the conclusions.”_

_“The selection. So you...had...both?”_

_“If by_ __had_ _ _you mean_ __had sex with_ _ _, yes, I had both women and men. Paid for their services.”_

_“Paid for...oh God, you used...of course you did. No emotion there._ __It was_ _ _only for experiment purposes.”_

_“Yes.”_

_“And what did you...what do you...”_

_“It doesn't matter. Nothing does right now. The simple fact is: I want_ __you;_ _ _that_ __never_ _ _happened before.”_

_“With them.”_

_“Yes. And_ __you_ _ _want me. Like this. Just ...forget that stupid excuse you give yourself and-”_

_John kneels in between Sherlock's open legs and catches his face in one hand -left hand- to make him shut up and pay attention. Like he could just chose to disappear. Or be able to see anything else._

_“Listen to me. I'm not making excuses now. But this is a lot to take in. What you said...about my hand and about me watching Moran kill himself, and you planning this for two, three years...it's the closest thing you'll ever do to show me you love me, right, you fool?”_

_Sherlock listens to the words behind the words and learns what is good and what is not so god and how the boundaries of those blur around them. He nods._

_He knows he did something right from the way John looks at him. Unlike every other human being, he doesn't need the person in front of him to respond with a declaration. Because Sherlock_ __knows_ _ _. And he knew for some time now that John Watson looks at him with a completely new emotion that he can now define and for once, not push aside and catalogue as irrelevant_ __sentiment._ _

_This emotion is_ __his_ _ _. He never thought he'll need one. He can't believe how easy it is to return it._

_“Come here,” he demands and John moulds into him, hard and soft and warm, warmer as his last clothes are taken off his body and Sherlock can press into skin, not cloth. And he's uncomfortably hard, but pressing into John's belly is good enough, even as his pubic hair makes the other body retreat an inch before coming back hard on him._

_“We can't have sex,” a dangerously close to defeated voice of reason forms hot, moist words into the hollow of his neck._

_“I don't want to any more,” Sherlock straightens himself a little as he drags John even closer when the man recoils. “Oh, don't look like that, it's not a rejection.”_

_“Thank you. You do wonders to my straight-man-fondling-another-naked-man level of confidence.”_

_“Flesh is flesh. Why are you simple people so.._ __.simple and daft_ _ _?”_

_“Oh, stop with the wooing already.”_

_“John,” Sherlock lowers his voice to a dangerous level, eyes clear as no naked man should possess. “I know for a fact you are not ready for this, on to many levels._ __You should_ _ _stop it. I will, for once, listen to you.”_

_As John rolls his eyes, Sherlock pushes into him, long, demanding, foretelling moves, nails planted in his back. “If you_ __would_ _ _be ready, I'd be inside you, or you inside me by now. So just shut up and kiss me. I still want to get_ __inside_ _ _you some way. But for now, this is safe and fast. We'll talk about the exchange of other body fluids next time.”_

_“Next time...” John echoes numbly above his lips, in his mouth, in his mind._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you survived the chapter, you are a hero to me.


	5. Checkmate on a raging king

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Moran is not the king on the table, he's just a pawn. But Sherlock needs to belive it again. For John.

_Reject. Reject. Reject._

_Wheels turning. Cold room, knocks on the door. Reject. This will work. The revolver. Percentages. The door, the room, a window showing black. Reject._

“Sherlock, open the door.”

_Go away. Leave me alone. Dark. Out of my reach. Pages on the walls, plans, years on the run. Replay. My choice, his choice. Sentiment. I can't lose._

“Open this door. This is childish and this isn't the time for that.”

Sherlock steps to the door, violin in hand, strong grip on it. He unlocks the door and pushes the violin back up to his neck, back into a tune he never played before. Never felt the need to play before. He doesn't even listen to it. Notes fall into place, fingers telling a tale he doesn't want to consider. Not now.

Mycroft sits in the chair by the fire and waits. Sherlock forgets he let his brother in. Like that, quiet in that chair, his brother doesn't exist and he can pretend someone else is sitting there listening. But his thoughts don't stop. Whirlwinds of puzzle pieces fly out of order. A order he created in years.

“You should have told me.”

“Shut up, I'm busy.”

“You're staying there with your violin lowered. I gave you five minutes now. Indulge me and explain this.”

“I don't _need_ to explain anything. It will be over soon.”

“I invested countless resources into this. Into _you_. And tonight you show up and tell me we have another plan. _You_ have another plan. No, you don't tell me, you let me witness it. In my own hose. You have been working on another plan and you sit here and look like you can come apart and you won't let me help you.”

“I can leave.”

“No...that is not...Sherlock, you sent him to his death.”

“He'll be back.”

“You planned this and you manipulated him into saying yes. You made him believe you-”

“Shut up. Shut up.”

“I _want_ to believe you manipulated him by giving him false hope. I refuse to believe you actually care that much. Sherlock, sentiment-”

“I know the words. But you don't know _him_. And you still don't know me.”

Mycroft passes his hands through his remaining hair, feeling tired and so very older brother.

“Let me understand this, maybe I can ensure some extra protection.”

“It's out of our hands. John is on his own.”

“In to play a game with a monster. Because Moran is unpredictable, we know it. He may very well shoot doctor Watson even before the game starts.”

“He won't. He needs this charade he's sure he'll win. He wants it like this. Sentiment. Moriarty died like this. He wants John to blow his brains out.”

“You base all your theory on _sentiment_.”

“No. I'm playing a game I know I'll win.”

“No Sherlock, you send in pawns that may or may not win _for_ you. You made this happen because, like Moran, you feel compelled, by sentiment, to give something back. To John.”

Sherlock breathes and his breath comes back to him hot from the tips of his fingers. Maybe...maybe he was wrong...maybe...He launches out of the chair, sending it to the ground.

“It's not to late to stop him. Sherlock, I can get him back. We'll get Moran some other time-”

“NO! Everything is in place. John answered the phone. Adair takes him there. He'll play the game. He'll win. Witnesses and the guards there will stop Moran from doing anything else.”

“Oh yes, Miss Rona Adair. I should have known you would try to save her.”

“I didn't _try_ , I succeeded.”

“Yes. And the trusted miss we knew as Adler is who you place your trust in. Of all the people.”

“I don't trust her. She plays a game too.”

“Oh? What did you promise her? You made her the same offer you made John? Yourself?”

The punch comes like a note, unheard, instinctive. Seconds later Mycroft holds onto the fireplace mantle, a pack of ice, brought by one of his invisible minions, close to his face.

“I went to far.”

It's all the apology Sherlock will get. But he expects nothing else from his brother, so that is just fine by him. It helped to feel something solid against his fist. It would have been better if Mycroft had the guts to fight back.

“What was that you were playing.”

Sherlock stops his pacing and looks at his brother, eyes unfocused, like he was expecting something else, or maybe like he forgot Mycroft was truly there.

“I...I don't know.”

“It was beautiful. I haven't heard you play something so...heartfelt since- Sherlock, where are you going?”

“I need air.”

Mycroft doesn't stop him. Ever since he came into the room, the haunting figure of his younger brother unnerved him. A pale shadow trapped inside a caged animal. Two hours he tried to get him to open the door. After John left with Rona Adair, also known as Irene Adler, and currently known as Sebastian Moran's representative, Sherlock stood in this room, ruining his fingers in a heartbreaking rush to complete a melody Mycroft knows will never get space on a sheet of paper. Maybe doctor John Watson will hear it sometimes, most likely not.

***

“I guess it's useless to ask where we are going.”

“We're going to Baker Street.”

John looks back at the woman, surprised he got an answer this time. The surprise of seeing her in Mycroft Holmes's house was short lived. Of course Sherlock would know, and would use her if necessary. The real surprise was to discover this new Woman as someone he could trust. Does he? Does Sherlock trust her?

“I like your new name,” John says, not because it's important, but because the wait is maddening and he needs to feel like he's not alone.

“New life, new name, new...well, habits.”

“You two saw each other often?”

“Oh, jealousy. No need to concern yourself with that. Sherlock Holmes never accepted my invitation to diner.”

John doesn't know why that should be something obviously comforting, and he dislikes the word jealousy, but he lets it pass, because actually all he wants to know is how Sherlock lived when he was dead to him.

“He thought this for you, you know. Sherlock Holmes went over his head to make this happen. It _is_ brilliant, his mind will never cease to amaze me. And attract me. I love to play games with him.”

“I'm sure you have other reasons to do this.”

Instead of answering, she raises her hand and makes a very deliberate move to show its contents.

“The phone. Your phone.”

“Yes. A nice payment for two years of having to stay near that ...psychopath.”

“How come Moran trusts you with this?”

“Oh, it was easy enough. I have my ways...”

“Of course. Yes, you would.”

The smile he receives is ice cold and he clutches the phone he received -Simmons phone-just for practice. The call from Moran, to invite him to the game, came this morning. This was going to be a day to remember. Well, if he still had a brain to keep memories by the end of it.

Waking up half naked, erect and confused wasn't half as bad as it sounds. After a few minutes of replaying scenes from the nigh before, all of them involving pink flesh and muscles, John went to find Sherlock back in his old seat. He realised then it was the first time Sherlock went near it.

He expected weirdness, something uncomfortable somewhere inside, but seeing the man there, limbs and veins pumping blood, wheels turning in his head, completely unaware we has being watched sent something ablaze inside John. Not guilt, not rage. Something new, that he could call love if not for his zero experience in that. Because, to be honest, this was way above the infatuation he felt before. And the sentiment resonated inside Sherlock too. Somehow, the man he once called a machine was permanently bound to him in a way they couldn’t put into words. So they put into actions.

Sherlock didn't make another step into kissing him, or undressing him or even be kinder to him. Not that he expected cosy marriage after one -well, a lot of kisses-but Sherlock acted even more distant and careful around him the entire day.

When he was presented with the phone and the explanation that this will be the phone Moran will contact him on, John took it and kept it close, listening to the plan again and again. After the phone call, they sat in silence, John surprisingly calm, Sherlock surprisingly tight. Now and again, Sherlock would give him a look, a strange look that he never asked what it meant and now wished he did. He refuses to think it was doubt.

“Why baker Street?” he asks, to change the direction of his thoughts.

“We need to pick someone up.”

This was something new, but then again, if Sherlock hadn't mention it, it was just another piece needed in the game and independent of his role. So John waited and when they arrived, the woman stopped him from getting out with a “You don't need to see this” and entered the building carrying a big shopping bag.

She came out behind a pale looking man, thin and scared to death under his new expensive black suit, and climbed into the car whispering directions to the driver.

“We're not going to Cavalry and Guards Club in Piccadilly?” he remembered the location Moran mentioned on the phone.

“No, an inconvenient police house call compromised the location.”

“Sherlock.”

“Yes. He needed a place with more...history.”

They arrive in an unknown location, near water. Unknown to John, because Irene knows exactly where she's going. The man was silent all the way, redrawn in a corner, sitting in a strange position as far away from contact as possible. Now he limps near him, following the woman into a decommissioned ship, towering them in metal and rust.

Others come as well. Black suits, silver evening dresses, a blatant contrast to the scenery. Groups of three or four, packing more money, John thinks, than the entire town he was born in. He feels out of place for a second, in his usual evening clothes. But then again, you don't need to wear a suit to a murder. Only 007 does that, he thinks and smiles carefully, catching up with Irene.

Someone at the entrance collects the weapons from every guest. He sees then the groups dismantle, from every cluster a man or two being taken by guards to somewhere else. Their companion, the haggard looking man is also taken, to Irene's indication.

He can't think about it all, because they are immediately inside and to the right, his designated killer is waiting. John never saw the man. But he knows. From his posture, from the hate in his eyes, from the sickening smile promising death. And the confidence is so high, even with the thin coat of sweat on his face, John would believe the certainty of his fate if Sherlock wasn't behind all this. Somehow, even absent, Sherlock overpowers this man. And that makes John feel safe.

They don't talk, Moran doesn't get near. Irene leaves him in the middle of all the people and goes to join him. Yes, of course, Moran thinks she's on his side. The woman and her charms.

Someone tries to get the general attention.

“Good evening. So pleased to see you all here. Old familiar faces and new ones. We welcome you. We are indeed very sorry for the change of scenery, but we believe this old piece of history will meet your expectations. We will commence by stating the rules. My lovely assistant will bring them to your attention along with the night's program. Thank you all and may Fortuna smile down on your lives. And pockets.”

Like promised, a young, half naked woman steps into view.

“All fire weapons are to remain by the gate to the end of the games. The pairs for the game were made accordingly to your specifications and the bets you placed. The weapon used tonight, presented to us by The Colonel, is this magnificent piece you all requested to see.”

The turmoil caused by the announce drowns the small voice until a loud bang calls the masses back to order.

“Place your bets, in cash, at the vault you can find in the room to the right. Then please step inside the room to the left, where a bar awaits you. Please let us know if there is anything we can do for you. Now, the pairs for the game.

Shadow sponsored by the Monted family will face Crimson sponsored by the Thrundill family

Blaze -Davis family, will face Arrow-Dunhill family”

Names went on and on, until John heard his own name.

“Colonel Moran will face, as usual, in his own name- oh, wait, he requests that tonight he is to be announced as representing Mr. James Moriarty. He will face Dr. John Watson, representing...Sir, do you represent someone?”

“Myself. And Sherlock Holmes.”

“You heard them ladies and gentlemen, two brave men will be standing against each other in a fair game of chance and will, in the memories of those they knew. We all know the stories, so this night promises to become a greater than ever spectacle.”

Bile rises inside John, thinking that this is real, it's happening, and all these people brought here money and ...slaves, to watch them die, for entertainment. He hates them all with passion and decides they, he and Sherlock, will have to do something about it as soon as Moran will be dead. And _that_ moment can't come soon enough.

***

He waits for her to come by, like he did some time ago. He did underestimate her, he decides and tries again to stop his hand from moving absurdly in a trembling he can't, after all, control. Maybe sentiment is a disability, but tonight is not his anatomy put to the test. He still hates it. The wait, the percentages. His mind for coming up with it. And maybe...

“Oh...you scared me.”

“Yes.”

“Why are you...not that I'm not glad to see you, but why...Do you need my help? Because I will do it for you, help you I mean...again.”

“You knew I was alive.”

Molly Hooper stands in the door, hands tied to one another, clothes hanging on her, a proof of insecurity. And yet her eyes...

“Yes. But I never thought you'll come back.”

“How?”

“I know you.”

And he realises she does know him. She sees under the mask, under clothes and insults. She's not him, she doesn't have his mind, but she has something else, something that amazes him. He can't name it.

“John couldn't tell.”

“He loves you I think. And the shock... I ...kind of...hated you for what you did to him. He was...broken after you...left the way you did.”

“It saved his life.”

“You still sound like you feel the need to apologize.”

He comes near her and stops again, his hands on his face.

“You see something in me I don't. He does to.”

She doesn't answer. He's not sure he expects her to. He's not even sure _why_ he came here. Maybe because if his plan fails, this will be the place where John's body...

“Are you okay?”

He straightens and looks at her.

“You look like you're in pain.”

Maybe he is. A gushing wound in his mind, dripping plans and moves and doubt. Everything in him wants to go to John, be there, whatever may happen. Hold John's head to make sure it's in one piece if Moran dies, hold John even broken if Moran lives. Keep John.

“I _can't_ go with him.”

“Him? Do you mean John? Oh, of course you do. Why not? He didn't forgive you?”

“He's about to place a gun to his head and shot because I told him to. I'm sure he forgave me.”

Molly forgets to close her mouth and Sherlock realises he spoke out loud.

“I just _need_ to know. But if I go there, we'll surely die. Us, Irene, who knows how many others. Arh, I don't care about them, but John... Both of us. Moran has guards, _friends_ or whatever they are to him. Even with the no-weapon policy, they can get us. I...can't...I'm afraid.”

He feels Molly coming closer and thanks her, mentally, for not touching him, even if she wants to.

“I couldn't get to Moran in the first year. And then this ...idea I had...I fought to make it happen. I should have asked him ...John. But Moran was there, all the time, had someone watching him. All the time. What if-”

“Stop.”

He looks up at her and is like he's faced with someone else entirely. The frail, clumsy Molly Hooper is gone, replaced by a determined woman, looking just about ready to slap him to senses.

“You never doubt yourself. Or your actions. They are sometimes infinitely cruel and complicated and you always play with fire. You never doubt yourself. So I don't. So John didn't. Because you are everything you think you are. But you know, you are so much more. I don't know why you had to leave, but I guess it wasn't easy. The way you looked at him said it wasn't easy. And you still did it. Another cruel and complicated thing. Party, if not everything, was for him, right? I could never understand, he may never too, but _you_ know. You always know. It's who you are. And you're the greatest man I ever met. Trust that.”

Not once he takes his eyes of her. He sees there a distorted image of what he did, across time, and Molly witnessed, from beating a corpse with a riding crop, to putting a broken body on her table and making her believe it was his. Every action he saw as logical, reflected back at him from a normal person perspective. And yet, no disgust. No lessons hidden in her words, or advice to change. He never thought he may need acceptance. Never sought it. And he got it anyway.

“That's why I came back. And John said yes,” he stares into the space above her head, talking more to himself, like always, a revelation so obvious it's stupid to put in in words and still end it with the sound of a question mark.

“Maybe. It's not wrong or weak to come back to someone that accepts you for everything you are. I believe ...yes. No matter what you say or plan or do, he'll say yes. _I_ would say yes. Because it's you.”

He touches her cheek and she blushes visibly even in the dark room.

“Thank you, Molly Hooper.”

Sherlock leaves put back together by something incredible. Sentiment. He saw it in her and he saw it in John, but he considered it a weakness. It's not. It gives him more power, more focus. Yes, he does things his own way, cruel and disregarding every rule, but he _never loses._

He can use sentiment, not let it use him. He can shed the mask sometimes, for John, be with him, really _be_ with him and still get back in the game, head clear, when he has to. John won't mind. John will be impressed. And maybe say “a little not good” but still be mesmerized by what he does and how he does it. John will not be a liability. He was once because Sherlock was to blind to acknowledge his importance and his role in his life. Not any more. Not now when he knows and when John is there playing _his_ game, playing with his life on the table, because of blind trust.

Doubt was and is his only enemy and weakness. Putting aside the fact that John, his only reason to believe this to be frightening, is there, alone, he analyses the other facts. Cold facts. Moran will react as predicted, the man in the box will ensure it, Irene played her role, the revolver is flawless.

The end of it.

His plan, his decisions will bring him a checkmate.


	6. In bruises the victor finds peace

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock can try to explain, but he has a better idea. He'll stand by John until he'll figure it out for himself.

It's not actually hard to stand there face to face with a man who saw your head up close, like the only target and purpose. It's not hard when you leave hate and thoughts of revenge at the door. A soldier's fate is to follow orders and John sees Moran fight the desperate fight to keep his soldier training even after all orders are lost in battle. Moran is not a general. But neither is he. He can understand tactics and it's because of that he can understand why Sherlock did it.

He doesn't care much for victimization. John felt like and guesses, he was seen as a liability to Sherlock and any good strategist would have a move to exploit that. He understands. He can't _feel_ it, but he can understand it. Only a genius tactician would make the game change and turn his liability into a strength. John likes to be Sherlock's strength.

Click. Metal silence.

The first round spares Moran and prolongs the game. The smug smile, drowned in sweat droplets, pushes into him like physical presence. John catches himself thinking – wishing – the revolver to end the game on him. It's just a thought, sharp and hard on his soul, similar to the one he had – he tries to forget – of Sherlock actually being a fake. He doesn't need to push it aside. It runs on its own, embarrassed and crippled by the infusion of trust. Not once he thinks about Sherlock's warmth scented, pale – or blood covered - temple. It's just him and the revolver and the empty barrel.

Click. Metal silence.

Moran is covered in sweat, trembling under the firm grip of his witness. John's witness is Irene Adler. She keeps her hand on him, part of the game, part of the spectacle, but if not for her expensive perfume, he wouldn't feel her. He's sure she's cheating and resents her light weight. It's irrational, and rude, so he stops and focuses on Moran instead.

Moran hates John Watson. For what he was and what he is. And for what he had. A man killed himself so that this man could live, while his master killed himself to...to end one life, to cut ropes and leave no other choice. For anyone. Him included. Him especially. Moran thinks he also hates Moriarty. But he definitely hates John. Him and the name John reminds him of.

Click. Metal silence.

John doesn't know what Moriarty was to Moran, but if he had to guess...he pretends he doesn't have to and raises the revolver for the next round.

Whispers can be heard, but not meanings. They each have the right to say something before pushing the trigger. John has nothing to say. It's not smugness, confidence in the result or a slap in Moran's face. It's peace. He looks at his left hand and Mycroft's words come to mind. He smiles. Moran launches over the table, death in his eyes.

“Colonel! Colonel! You know this is against the rules. Please, be seated,” the host intervenes along with four of five security guards.

“He mocks me. And this game.”

“Sir, please, do you wish to say something? We should proceed to round two. Please be seated.”

Click. Metal silence.

Moran has nothing to say. It's smugness, confidence in the result and a slap -he thinks-for John. He can act brave. Along with hate, fear of this place, of the man holding his shoulder, covers him completely. And all he wants is to win, to see John Watson's brain coming out for air, the same Moriarty's brain did. Oh, he wanted this so much. He could have killed John long ago, just out of spite, but this is so much better. To force him replay the scene, just as his _general_ played it, gun to his own head. So he pushes the trigger and removes the cold steal from his temple.

Click. Metal silence.

***

_Snipers cleared. Location secured. Not over yet.MH_

He doesn't answer. Doesn't push the syringe in. He thought about it, the chemical pause button he sometimes used. Not since John.

_He morns you._

_Refused a better therapist._

_Contemplates suicide._

_Doesn't go through._

_Moved out of Baker Street._

Sherlock remembers the usual updates Mycroft sent him. He never asked for them, but he was grateful. They made him lose focus, so he never read them more than twice before deleting them. He could never delete John. He tried it at some point, before coming up with this plan to make him part of his life again. It ended in paying a male prostitute for a night and coming only after he was gone from the room. He came mumbling John's name. After that, he was sure it was written in his shadow. The weight he was carrying, the sentiment. Except for Irene Adler, no one else saw it.

 _You_ were _hungry. You just didn't want_ me _for diner._

 _Does he know? Of course he doesn't. Do_ you _know?_

_He's not even sure. Will you show him? Will you take him out to diner?_

He shakes her words from memory and reads the text from Mycroft again. Maybe he can go there. Wait outside. Th screen lights again.

_Stay away. She'll let me know.MH_

The “want” becomes a “need” to go. He locks himself in. The room is still damp and still messy, the box opened and traces of the other human being living here with him almost tangible. He avoids the couch and lays down instead, on the floor, looking up at his home. He won't go there without him. The door of 221C is holding him in, safe but isolated from his life. All he can do is wait. He contemplates resuming the smash the phone game.

_I'll need to reach you.MH_

The phone goes down by his side, almost tenderly.

“John...”

***

All he hears is the commotion. Voices cheering or yelling displeased. All he sees is the blood smearing a face still smiling in provocation. And then the man who held Moran's shoulder grabs the revolver, puts it to his own head and pushes the trigger. Again and again. Click. Metal silence. Click. Metal silence.

He wants to ask why, but the ethereal presence behind him becomes commanding.

“Move.”

For the first time, he feels like the unplanned may happen. Irene Adler pushes him towards the exit, the bodies around them more and more suffocating realities. Are they after them? Will they get out safe?

“Sherlock.”

“Yes. I need to get you to him. NOW!”

The sense of urgency grows. Each step, a return to normalcy. Step. Step. Stagger. Step. She tries to guide him, touching him and trying not to be obvious about it. Oh yes, she's suppose to be his enemy. Can they see them together? Trying to get out...together?

“Danger?” he asks her, moving his hand to search for a gun he hasn't carried since ….since.

“I don't know,” she answers, and John hears annoyance and maybe some fear in her voice, like the tunnel of bodies is a collapsing force on her and she was here before, in this situation, cornered, the way out far, too far and this time, Sherlock Holmes is not waiting for her. He's not waiting for him either.

But the car is. A black invisible car, one of Mycroft's he decides, because he really wants to believe that for once, the older Holmes will kidnap John when he wants to be kidnapped.

As they leave, other cars appear, purpose in speed, and they spill out black suits, armed and dangerous, John thinks. The ship will be cleared, the game, he hopes, forever ended. And he feels nauseous for the first time.

“Let me get out here,” he hears and turns to Irene.

“Not coming?”

She turns to him, still not completely herself.

“Wish I could.”

“Then-”

Irene cuts him off, a hand to his lips and comes so close John believes she'll kiss him. Who knows how her mind works? Not even Sherlock Holmes. She doesn't kiss him. Just comes very near him and whispers in his ear.

“He made it clear he wants _you..._ out...”

There's something left unsaid, but she smiles and covers her hands in black gloves. The car stops and she disappears into the night, to her life. John wanders if he'll ever see her again. If Sherlock will ever see her again. The bets on No.

The driver says nothing when they stop in front of 221B. John steps out and checks the window above. It's dark inside too. He's afraid for a second. He fears the moment the car will make a turn and disappear. It will feel like coming home after the funeral. The fake funeral of _his_ fake death. So real to John he can still remember the dread of walking back into their...his...their flat. The agony of going back -again-to nothing.

So he pushed the door open and runs up the stairs.

“Please be here.”

No one answers. No one is there.

***

The lock. The front door. The steps. John's afraid. But he lives. He'll walk into an empty flat. Feel lost. And this time, John will look for him. Waiting. Even more waiting.

Sherlock has not eaten. Nor slept. He could say not since all this started three years ago, but that would be a poetic dramatization and a biological impossibility. Yet he feels like his whole body collapses into pause the moment John walks back into his life, present and safe.

He drags himself near the door and sits there waiting, head banging on the wood. John will have to find him. He'll wait there for him to catch on and deduce his presence. But John will most likely panic and use his feelings to find him, that sense of the right orbit, the magnetism of the others presence people feel. So it will take a while.

“You were here the whole time.”

The voice brings him back to consciousness. He fell asleep.

“Not the whole time, obviously. Just the last couple of days.”

“The night I came home-”

“Yes.”

“Can you please open the door?”

“I lost my key.”

“Why would you even-”

“You. I was waiting for you. We should go back together.”

There's a pause and Sherlock imagines John sitting down, mimicking his position.

“You doubted me coming back.”

He wants to say no, but he did, at some point. Because it all rested into a tiny detail only he knows, he deduced, he anticipated. The first thing he knew about John.

“You had that man locked in here. Who was he?”

A man? Oh, that man. The voice in the box. The pawn.

“Moran's rapist.”

“What?!”

Finding him was hell. But he did it, finally, another piece of the game.

“Sherlock?”

He can hear John, but his jaw weighs tons and he can't answer.

“Sherlock!”

Louder now, above him, urgent.

 _I'm not a ghost_ , he tries to say, but he can't, he can't. John's safe. Sane. Maybe _he_ isn't. He hears other voice too now, screams, loud discharges, pavements collapsing onto him -impossible- John's hushed words into his skin -I love you, Don't go- his heart racing, then stopping altogether.

Days, years pass, all days, not even one night for him to rest. Inside his mind it's never night, no pause button, no blessed fast forward. He smells may rain and gun powder and John's skin.

Sherlock wakes up. More like he opens his eyes, because he's always awake, he feels like life runs over him and he runs into it and nothing escapes him. It's exhausting. John looks worried. It's not a pleasant view.

“Give me your hand.”

John gives him his left hand. Of course he does. His dominant hand, plunging always first into any battle. Sherlock takes it, feels the bones, the skin, the blood pumping. He kisses it. He sucks the finger that saved both their lives. John inhales sharp but lets his hand be.

“You kept that man in there.”

“Yes,” he answers, because it doesn't matter now, John will forgive every not good thing he ever did. It's his curse. A virus Sherlock planted in him and he resents it, but what can he do other than observe it grow and mutate. One day he'll forgive himself. In the end, maybe John will forgive him too. He plans for them to wait that day together.

“One day you'll have to tell me everything.”

Of course he will. He'll need a plan for that day, for John to be relaxed -probably after sex, then- for John to feel safe and there and feel his presence, so he'll accept everything and kiss him, or just hold him. He would do that.

“How long?”

“You were out for almost 20 hours. Never seen you sleep so much. You looked like you were dead.”

Sherlock smiles and John smiles back, hesitates but then comes to him for a touch of lips. Sherlock is hungry and stretches out, into the body next to him, but strong hands stop him.

“Not now.”

“When?”

“We have time. Unless you want to take another case or ...get married any time soon.”

 _Oh, John, you don't fear death, but you feel insecure about me being here for you. Idiot,_ he thinks but only gives a mild scorning look.

“What am I saying. You probably will.”

It's true, it may happen. For a case, of course, he'll do whatever it takes. Except faking a suicide. That would be dull the second time around.

“Move over, you take over the bed.”

Of course he does, it's his bed, he thinks, but sees John undressing and trying to fit in the remaining space. The prospect frightens him, only a second, until, like a satellite, he moves over to find his planet. He snarls at the metaphor and collapses into John's body, to create some chaos, or restore some order. Their lives constrict within the limits of the bed and he feels like he can stop running.

“Only one thing I got wrong,” he continues a thought started who knows when and ready to be tied nicely and then forgotten.

“What?”

“Harry is your sister. _Sister_.”

“There's always something,” John replies in the hair on his neck, warm and close and completely there.

***

Sherlock doesn't say babysitter, Mycroft wouldn't dream of calling it what it is, but nevertheless, he is in their flat waiting. If he deduces every hour of the nigh passed -and of course he does- he says nothing. He even prepares tea.

“Where's Sherlock?”

“And good morning to you Doctor,” he offers, trying very hard to stop deducing the said night to the second. He somewhat fondly remembers Sherlock's “sex doesn't alarm me” reply. He smiles.

“Well?”

“My brother is fine, I assure you. We both know, no matter how well the time off suited him, he was bound to resume his prior day to day routine.”

“Lestrade called?”

“No, actually. He's helping me. Well, better said, the government.”

John smiles back and passes a hand through his hair.

“ _That_ is frightening. Sorry, but it is.”

Mycroft doesn't reply to that. His arrangements with Sherlock are games, check played at a distance.

“I assure you he is safe.” The words slip before he can consider them and that doesn't happen with him. Ever. John's look, a retelling of years and years of silence, makes him regret the slip even more. “Did he tell you?”

“I'm sure he will. When he's ready.”

“Doesn't strike you as odd? He always boasts about his plans, especially to eager ears.”

“Well...” John sips from his cup and makes a face but drinks the rest in two sips.

“He always plays others. This time, he played himself. He was the pawn.”

“It all worked out. Why should it matter?”

“Because there was a chance, a very considerable chance for things to go wrong. He trusted you with your life and ...his.”

“What?”

“Miss Adler kindly informed me that the revolver was not modified according to our specifications. There wasn't time.”

“You mean-”

“No, no, you were quite safe, the bullet could never enter the barrel when shot by your hand. But Moran would have been safe too. The revolver was still perfectly fit for his hand. If not for a little, very little detail, that game was to produce two winners.”

“Then how...”

“Sherlock did what I never thought he will ever do. For certain, something I would never recommend or allow. He trusted the odds.”

“What do you mean?”

“I'm afraid I said too much. I'm sure he'll want to explain himself.”

“You just said-”

As if summoned, Sherlock steps into the flat and eyes them suspiciously.

“It's done,” he addresses Mycroft, but quickly moves his attention to a staring flatmate, half dressed and positively intrigued. “What did he say to you?”

“You-”

“Never mind. Don't listen to him. Mycroft, you know the way out.”

“You're welcome, Sherlock.”

And the door closes with a sound almost covered by Sherlock huff.

“I know I said you can take your time to explain, but this...well, it's ...tell me it was safe. For both of us.”

“Of course it was. I would never allow for you to get hurt.”

And Sherlock means it. John sees it in his eyes and the way he moves to touch him, take his hand and place another kiss on his left hand finger.

“How did you know. We were both left handed, both ex soldiers, we both-”

“You were nothing alike,” Sherlock says determined, a little too loud and too close. His expression then changes into something warm and John can see pride on those features. “Your hand is always steady,” he whispers and it seems like it's the end of the explanation, like he just offered the key to the equation.

Of course, John still can't see it. And Sherlock smiles, dragging the known body back to a common place, where variables add up to the same result.

“Idiot,” he teases, warm and slow, before closing the door to the world.

**Author's Note:**

> In a rapidly depleting pool of post Reichenbach scenarios, I felt the irrational -completely useless- need to throw my words at it. Because series 3 begins in a year-maybe- and because I had an idea -it all starts once an idea grows in there- this is what came out to ease my mind, and possibly hurt your eyes. Hope you enjoy it. Leave a sign, I can deduce you were here visiting -well, the hit count helps. Feel free to vent over my inability to write proper English (not my language) or other stuff, but I had to write this. It haunts me that much. Thank you all.


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